Neighbour invents superior method of trolling

A resident of de Beauvoir, Islington, has come up with a solution for one of today’s most pressing issues: how to lambast someone without knowing their twitter handle. The game-changing innovation was first noticed by fellow local, Sally Jones, on her routine walk home on Tuesday afternoon.

‘I saw an A4 notice duct-taped to 12a’s door – it was hard to miss. My first thought was, “oh, maybe Mark and Louise’s friends have left them a friendly note saying hi” or something.’ It was only upon closer inspection that 26 year old Ms Jones realised she was privy to something special.

‘When I took a closer look, I realised that, actually, this wasn’t just a note. It was genius. I feel really quite lucky to have seen this first hand, and for this to have happened on my little street.’

The note reads:

‘Hey fella! How about a more positive input and respect your local environment? Instead of the fly-tipping and disposing of cig-butts into the drainage system! Acting oddly venturing into private land with no business of being there! Not least the absurdity of teasing a cat on leash with no real prospect of free natural enjoyment is questionable, if not abusive! Think you can step up to the mark?

Other locals have been quick to enthuse the pioneering move of anonymous. Raymond Rogers, 74, from “across the way”, says ‘I had no idea that my neighbours were dicks. I am so glad that someone has done the whole street the courtesy of telling us. What this world needs is more acts of kindness like this.’

According to expert troll, @cuckiller, the typed note succeeds on multiple levels. ‘In some ways,’ he tweets, ‘this digitally produced analogue document goes beyond twitter. Theres [sic.] no character limit for a start, and front doors are big so u can say much more. Because its [sic.] typed u don’t know who wrote it and lots of people can c it. And unlike twitter, u get to see people’s faces. The best feature tho is that cos no1 knows who stuck it up no1 can respond. U have the 1st and last word evrytime [sic.]. ‘

As is standard practice, the identity of #banksytroll (as the internet has christened the note’s author) remains under wraps. What is clear though, is that the vigilante of de Beauvoir has and will continue to inspire.

‘I’m glad I got to see it before it was taken down,’ reflected Ms Jones. ‘I like John upstairs, but I can hear him shit. Finally I can let him and the rest of the street know.’

One woman’s day(-to-day)

Two days ago a teenage boy in the street belched loudly and threw the bottle top of his radioactively blue drink at me. Last week (same street) a middle aged builder shouted down from the scaffolding ‘hello love, it’s good to see a woman smile.’ Today I was crossing the road next to my house. A man (late 20s) driving a white van clocked me accelerated towards me bounced over speed bumps swerved at the last minute and laughed as he drove off. To clarify: a man pretended to run me over for lols.

I’m not going to sermonise pontificate or shout. I am not going to state the bloody obvious. But I wonder -

Why was it funny to van-man to give me a scare? So he can go down the pub with his mates and say ‘yeah, boys, gave this blonde a bit of a fright didn’ I. I was like going full pelt over the speed bumps and shit putting my foot down steaming towards her, and then – [hands smacked together] –  swerved at the last minute. Shoulda seen her face. A proper picture. Fuckin’ effin and blindin at me mate.’ Swigs slams and splashes pint to a chorus of bants and laughs.

The builder turns to the scaffold crew and says with warming sincerity, ‘it’s just nice when they smile, boys. Women. Got to be always so effin miserable! If I have to look at the face on my missus every bloody night, least I can have is the smile of nice looking girl to brighten my day.’ Here’s his laugh. He’s got his.

And the teenage boy. (Struggling to invent something for this one). But anyway, here he is, combining his penchant for littering and distaste for unknown women. Not a sophisticated display, but original(ish) – a new generation of ‘lad’, with his mates and blue syrup drink, in a succinct display of not giving a shit.

I am pretty used to getting my narrative written by someone else, getting my self told to me. So today I’ve had a go at writing the narratives of those that made me feel uncomfortable.

It didn’t feel good – presuming and assuming, guessing accents and backgrounds, guessing words. It didn’t feel good speaking for another. But then I want equality – which is not the same as getting even.

Sauna Surprise

I went swimming this morning at my £96 per month gym. I’m not showing off. I didn’t pay for my membership (it was a gift from concerned parents. My concerned parents) and I only swum 50 lengths (in a 20 metre pool) because my childhood asthma is coming back/ I need to give up smoking. I’m 31 for Christ’s sake and should bloody know better. I will give up. At some point in my life I will give up. In the new year perhaps. That’s quite close actually. When I land a full time job I might give up unless it is very stressful.

Anyway. Swum. Swim done. Lumbered out, chest tight earplugs out goggles off into sauna.

Penis.

PENIS draped on ball sack muffled around with dark sweated pubic curls.

‘Sorry’, said its owner. Towel closed back over.

I sat on the lower bench. He and it rather dominated my usual top shelf sweat-spot. Eyes averted. My bench embarrassingly creaking.

'It’ll make that noise even if you yawn’, he said (smiling. I imagine. Though I am still not looking). ‘It won’t break’, reassuring smile this time. Probably.

I took a glance to acknowledge. The towel had crept back. The tip was tucked away - shaft visible - with all the modesty of a nipple tassel but not a spit of the spangled sex appeal.

He feels sorry for me and my cumbersome creaking and sporadic coughing. I feel sorry for him and his hardly hidden head. Perhaps we have reached an accord. A very unsexy not to be repeated hope I get that image out of my head (I’m really not that heavy it’s just the bench) accord.

The Boss

I’m a fast walker.  I travel when I walk. I don’t perambulate.  I don’t stroll.  I never saunter.  I journey.  And so it’s rare that I overhear conversations.  I catch a phrase – discombobulated – hold onto it for a second, but invariably let it go, because usually, it’s senseless.  There was, however, one gem occasion, paces away from my house, where I journeyed through an entire, succinct exchange between father and (let’s say 4 year old) son.  Verbatim:

Son: Are you the big boss now, dad?

Father: Yes son. Yes I am.

Son: Are you going to fire him dad.

Father (with magnanimous, affected regret): Yes son – SIGH – I’m afraid I am.

Son: Are you going to BATTER him, dad?

Shouldn’t let your kids watch Eastenders.